The End
by CoherentNonsense
Summary: The Last Great War is won, and Asgard is finally at peace. It is in this unique era of freedom and opportunity that Thor, Loki, Sif, and the Warriors Three grow up. A collection of important moments in their lives, pre-Thor to post-Avengers.
1. The End

**Title: The End**

**Summary: The Last Great War is won, and Asgard is finally at peace. It is in this unique era of happiness, freedom and opportunity that Thor, Loki, Sif, and the Warriors Three grow up, bound by friendship and family. A collection of important moments in their lives, pre-Thor to post-Avengers.**

**Warnings: None! So far, at least. If there are any in later chapters, I'll put them there. However, there WILL be pairings – none of them particularly serious or long term – because that is part of life! But they will only be in a few chapters, and not for a while yet. That's the only thing I can think of that people might want to be warned about.**

**Author's Note: This first chapter focuses mainly on Fandral's mother, although she will probably only appear in passing in later chapters. I think that the fact the characters all grow up post-war is very significant, and it needed to be properly introduced in the first chapter.**

**The next chapter will involve Thor and Fandral accidentally committing arson, and the third chapter will introduce Volstagg. Both will be significantly more light-hearted than this one!**

* * *

The war was over.

Drifa laughed. At first she didn't believe Ulfrik, which was fair enough, really, since he often came to her door with blatant untruths. The widower had grown bored in his old age and took great delight in toying with the minds of his neighbours, and this, of all lies, would cause quite a lot of outrage. However, when she couldn't spot the least hint of deviousness in his gleeful expression, and when she noticed her other neighbours spilling onto the streets in jubilation, she was almost inclined to believe him. Almost. She laughed a little louder.

"You don't believe me!" Ulfrik huffed, throwing his hands in the air in mock frustration. "Just take your children and follow me, girl. There's a crowd gathering in the central plaza – if there's enough of us, the Allfather is bound to make a speech."

"The Allfather?" Drifa was sceptical. "He's in Jotunheim."

"No!" bellowed the old man.

Drifa felt a tug at her skirt and, without looking away from her neighbour, she bent down and swept her son into her arms. She was mildly surprised at his appearance. It was late – it had been dark for well over an hour – and last time she'd seen him he had been asleep in the front room. She supposed Ulfrik had woken him.

"Fandral," she said, smiling into his chubby face and directing his huge blue eyes towards the man at the door. "Say hello to crazy Mister Vekelson."

"Hello crazy Mister," the boy mumbled.

Ulfrik was too excited to be irritated by this form of address.

"Greetings, little Fandral! Well, Drifa, you can miss one of the greatest moments in Asgard's history remaining here if you wish, but I shall not be so foolish."

Ulfrik turned and half limped, half skipped down the street, heading the same way as her other excited neighbours – towards the central plaza. Perhaps he was right, thought Drifa, and a hint of giddiness seeped into her bones. If the war were truly over, Karli would return. Karli would return! All her fears of bringing up Fandral and his sisters alone would never come to pass.

"Ingrid!" Drifa called, retreating back into her house but not closing the door. "Ingrid, bring your sister and come downstairs!"

A few moments later a curly blonde head appeared at the top of the stairs. "Mother? Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes. The central plaza."

"Urgh! But I haven't washed my hair! It's all greasy and horrible."

"It's dark – no one will see you."

With an irritated sigh, the blonde head disappeared. A moment later it reappeared, followed, this time, by a slim child's body with a baby in its arms. Ingrid carried little Svala down the stairs a tad less carefully than Drifa would have wanted, so as soon as she was within reach, Drifa planted Fandral firmly down on his feet and reached for her youngest daughter.

"What's going on, Mother?" the eldest child asked.

"Maybe nothing." Drifa turned back to the door, now seeing people she did not recognise pouring through the streets. Clearly the word had spread and it wasn't just her street that knew. Ulfrik couldn't have told all these people, could he?

Taking Ingrid's hand in hers and instructing her to hold tightly onto Fandral's, Drifa led her children through the streets of Asgard. She followed the crowd making its way towards the plaza, the route lit by a parade of floating torches. Each street they passed through thickened the flow of Asgardians heading towards the palace district, the chatter growing continually louder and more animated. As they traversed a bridge, Drifa cast her eyes down the canal and saw that each bridge held the same heaving, glowing, laughing crowd as theirs. Was this real? She tuned in to the many voices surrounding her and heard snippets of all sorts of madness.

…_The Allfather has returned!_

…_They say he smashed Laufey's skull…._

…_heard he lost an arm or…._

…_has been hiding a baby! There is a second prince!_

…_a treaty – then we can think about peace…_

Drifa stopped listening. It was too much and too confusing. Besides, it was probably just rumour and she'd find out what really happened eventually.

A few streets later, the mighty golden spires of the palace came into view, boldly piercing the night sky. As they drew nearer, Drifa could see what looked like flames dancing across the lower parts of the spires, just visible over the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Confusion clouded her mind momentarily, but she cast it aside. If it were truly burning, there would have been screaming.

It wasn't until they had reached the clearing of the plaza that she realised what this flame-like effect was. Normally almost empty, the plaza enclosed a vast sea of bodies, into which more poured from every entry. She gaped at the undulating mass, disbelieving. As her eyes swept the across the scene, she realised that it was the light from the many floating torches that lit the palace. It seemed to blaze with victory, standing immovable and unshakable. Drifa, at the edge of the plaza, had a perfect view – she could see the extent of the gathered population stretching to the very edges of her vision, and she could see the palace, proud and shining with glory. It was not a scene she would soon forget.

Ingrid pulled at her arm.

"Mother, we should find a better spot. People are trying to walk here."

"Oh! Yes, of course."

Drifa and her children found a place to stand relatively close to the palace, but still at the edge of the crowd - with a boy as young as Fandral and a baby as young as Svala, they could hardly venture down into its depths. More and more people poured in as time went by, and Drifa wondered how many could before the plaza reached its maximum capacity. Already there were citizens climbing onto nearby rooftops for a better view. Was the whole city here? However, although the plaza was full, the steps up to the palace and the gleaming golden walkway leading to its doors were empty. She supposed that no matter how little space there was, no one was about to show disrespect for the Allfather tonight, of all nights.

Suddenly, the golden palace doors were thrown open, and a roar erupted from the crowd. Drifa found herself joining in involuntarily. It wasn't as that she had any objection to cheering; she simply wasn't aware that she was doing it.

A group of Crimson Hawks – Odin's personal guards – marched through the doors first, splitting up to line the walkway and the steps down to the crowd. As they moved, an invisible wave spread through the floating torches and they arranged themselves into a far less chaotic arrangement: one above each of the uniformed men and the rest evenly distributed above the plaza. Drifa watched this magic with interest, wondering who had actually enchanted those torches, since the hundreds of them were all perfectly identical, when an even more deafening cheer interrupted her thoughts. Her head snapped back to the palace.

The Allfather himself had stepped through the doors and was striding forwards down the walkway, his golden armour shimmering with brilliance and Gungnir held firmly in his grasp. She was taken aback when she noticed the patch covering one of his eyes, and a murmuring could be distinguished beneath the cheering of the throng. Heimdall, the Watcher, walked behind him on the left, similarly clad in heavy battle armour, and Frigga walked on the right, one of her arms holding little Thor's hand and the other cradling a tiny bundle of green fabric. Drifa squinted at the bundle – she had heard people whispering about a baby on the way here, and it certainly did look like one. The contrast between the green of the blankets and the blue of the Queen's dress was common symbolism among the Aesir to communicate that the child was a boy. The rumours, it would appear, were true!

The Allfather stopped a short distance away from the steps down to the plaza and stood still for a moment, sweeping his eyes across his gathered subjects and allowing Frigga and Heimdall some time to find their positions behind him. The cheering had not even begun to die down when Odin struck Gungnir against the walkway, but by the third strike the plaza was completely silent. The torches swayed overhead in the wind and a bird screeched across the sky, alighting on the edge of the open palace door.

"People of Asgard," the Allfather's booming voice addressed the crowd, amplified by magic and seeming to emanate not from his form, but from the ground, the air, and the surrounding buildings. The voice was not that of a man, but that of the land itself – the voice of a king. "For centuries we have maintained a bitter rivalry with the Frost Giants of Jotunheim. Often this rivalry has descended into open conflict, and sometimes this conflict has culminated in the violent throws of war. For the last half century, we have been engaged in the most intense of all our wars with Jotunheim; but it was to be our last great war."

He paused here, letting his words sink in. Nothing he said was new apart from the mention of this war being the last, and a soft whispering spread briefly across the plaza.

"Recently, as you are all aware, our victories have been numerous. Our armies drove the Jötunns out of Midgard and Vanaheim, and forced them back to their own realm. We followed them into the cold wastes of Jotunheim with the aim of forcing a complete surrender. That was two years ago, and since then we have lost countless men and struggled against the harshest conditions and strongest fighters that Jotunheim has to offer. It has been perhaps the most exhausting and tragic of all Asgard's wars – perhaps of all wars within the nine realms."

There was a murmur of general agreement and Drifa found herself nodding absently. When Karli had returned to Asgard a year and a half ago he had described to her the devastation he had witnessed. The battlefields littered with bodies, the empty, burning villages, the screaming children and the starving peasants. Normally wars were between opposing armies, not between warriors and innocent families. This was something more than war.

"You have been gathered here through word of mouth, through whispers of victory and promises of peace. I stand here before you, speaking as your king and as your father, to announce that the war with Jotunheim has been won."

The crowd erupted.

* * *

The next day there was a memorial service. There had been many since the start of the war – every so often there would be a public reading of the names of the dead followed by a short speech about how they would take their places in the halls of Valhalla. To end the ceremony there was the symbolic release of an enchanted lamp, whcih would hover over the city with the names of the dead carved into its luminescent surface. One name would vanish each day until it was completely smooth, lost its glow and disappeared.

These memorials were always held in the central plaza, and although the speaker varied from time to time, they were usually led by the Queen. After every ceremony, Frigga would host a wake of sorts in the palace gardens in which the families of those who had died were invited to mourn and to attempt to find some comfort in one another.

Thankfully, Drifa had never attended one of these wakes. Her father was too old to go to war and her brother had been injured very early on, losing a leg from the knee down, and was unable to continue fighting. The two of them had been asked to join the group of warriors remaining in Asgard for defensive purposes and, while they both would have preferred fighting on the front lines, they recognised the importance of their more reserved role. Drifa was merely thankful that their chances of survival had been so dramatically increased. Her husband, Karli, on the other hand, had been away for decades. He came back occasionally, as the warriors did when able. The last time he had been injured and returned briefly to Asgard for healing – that was when Svala had been conceived.

She had attended every one of the memorial services that had occurred while Karli was away. It was the quickest way to hear whether he was still alive – the lists of names were called here first before they were released to the public. Each time she had stood and listened with bated breath until the last name was called and then sighed with a depth of relief that only increased as the years went by. She had witnessed so many breakdowns, heard so many screams filled with shock, anguish and denial. She had seen so many mothers, wives, sisters and grandparents falling to their knees and so many children in a confused panic at their guardians' strange behaviour. Openly, she grieved with them out of compassion. Secretly, the sight of them made her thankful that the pain was theirs instead of hers.

Today, though, when she attended the ceremony – the last ceremony – she was not so lucky. Her knees buckled and she screamed and cried the same way that so many others had when the name they so desperately prayed not to hear was read out.

Karli was dead. Her Karli was dead.

* * *

She wasn't going to attend the wake – it was too much too soon and the pain she felt was still too raw – but she ended up going anyway. It wasn't the same day as the memorial, like it usually was. The Queen was busy with an even larger memorial service, in which the names of all who had died since the start of the war would be read out, and some sort of symbolic something would be released and there would be lots of crying and sadness, but gladness, too, that no more names would be added to the lists.

Karli had died in the final battle. He had been so close – so _close_ – to coming home. Drifa couldn't stand it.

Her mother had come to the house to take care of her and the children. The small part of her that could feel something other than pain was glad that no matter what happened or who died, her mother would always be there. She didn't need to bring up her children alone, even with their father gone.

The wake she eventually attended was several weeks after the memorial. Apparently that was quite normal, since it took everyone some time to overcome the initial shock and pain enough to seek solace in strangers, which is why Frigga had continued the wakes for so long after the end of the war. Drifa's neighbour, Asta, had also lost her husband and had been building up the courage to attend a wake for several weeks. When she saw the pain that Drifa was going through, it seemed to give her the strength she needed. The two women took their children and set off together, finding comfort in their togetherness.

Ingrid didn't accompany them. She was old enough to understand what had happened, unlike her siblings, and was far too upset. At any other time, Drifa would never have left Ingrid's side in such a state, but her own grief blocked all concern for others and all the compassion she normally possessed. Her mother was there, at any rate, to look after the girl.

The wake was strange.

Drifa had never been so deep into the palace gardens before. She had visited the public areas, of course, as everyone in Asgard had. They were full of winding paths, sheltered pagodas, exotic flowers, bubbling fountains and silent ponds – quite the most beautiful place in the realm, and lovely to visit. There was a calmness that came with such controlled beauty, which, she had often thought, must be why Frigga held her wakes here. But deeper into the gardens, in the private, royal grounds where she now stood, this feeling was greatly amplified.

Here lay the more rare, delicate plants that would probably not survive in full public view. Plants from every realm, some Drifa swore she thought were extinct, lined the stone paths in bushes and gorgeous arrangements. The ponds here hummed with life and magic, and birds chirped and sang the most exquisite, soulful melodies. The whole garden swam in an enchanted haze, and Drifa wondered whether the spells had been cast for the protection of the surroundings or specifically for the benefit of the wakes' guests. Either way, Drifa could hardly remember feeling so tranquil, despite her still very conspicuous pain.

The wake was primarily positioned in a small clearing where a gazebo stood, opening out onto a sunlit patio. Tall tables were arranged across the patio where women – and a few men, mostly elderly – stood with glasses of juice and water. On each table sat a small tray of snacks, mostly of the sweet variety, that were available for anyone to take. It was a small affair, perhaps because it was one of the last, and Drifa felt vaguely relieved. She had hated the idea of being in a crowd again.

Approaching the patio, she and Asta encouraged their older children to go and play with the others in the gardens – she could see the little heads of scurrying children and hear their quiet laughter as they played. Fandral skipped away with Asta's two daughters in the direction of the other children. Drifa didn't know whether Fandral was grieving his father's loss. She hadn't bothered to check.

The two ladies poured themselves each a cup of a pink-coloured juice (probably Kettafruit) and found a table by which to stand. Neither said a word until the Queen addressed them.

She had been talking to an elderly man when the women had arrived and seemed to be making her way to each guest in turn, conversing with them for a while before moving on to the next. She was dressed in pale pink today and carried her baby in a blue blanket. Drifa wondered momentarily why she had brought her child before remembering Svala in her own arms, wrapped in blue to match her mother, the Aesir symbol to indicate a girl. It seemed that the Queen, in encouraging others to bring their children, had followed her own advice.

"Good afternoon," the queen smiled, her voice calm and soothing.

Drifa nodded and Asta replied with her own "good afternoon."

At that moment, one of Asta's girls came running back across the patio and pulled her mother's skirt.

"Mama! Mama! I found the prettiest flower in the world! Please come look with me."

Asta flushed and apologised to the Queen, but the other woman laughed gently. "Your daughter needs you; do not let me stand in the way."

Asta followed her child, leaving Drifa alone with Frigga. There was silence for some time – Drifa had no interest in speaking, particularly as she fully expected the Queen to ask about Karli. In the end, what Frigga chose to talk about caught Drifa unawares, despite it being the perhaps most obvious of topics.

"Your daughter," Frigga leaned forward ever so slightly to get a better view of the baby's face. "What is her name?"

Drifa looked up and stared for a moment, then, remembering herself, glanced at her child. "Svala. She was born six months ago."

Frigga's smile widened. "She's beautiful."

Drifa felt a touch of pride – perhaps the first thing she'd felt that wasn't pain since the memorial. Perhaps it was the serenity the Queen seemed to emanate that made her feel safe and comfortable. Mixed with the enchantments of the gardens, it was quite powerful. Perhaps that was why she continued the conversation.

"And your son? What is his name?"

"Loki. He is three months old." The Queen was glowing as she continued: "as a girl I always imagined that one day I would have two sons. Perhaps it was a vision and I was too young to realise."

"That's a sweet name. Much less threatening than 'Thor'," Drifa said, hoping the Queen wouldn't take that the wrong way.

She didn't. "Yes, well – Odin wanted the eldest child to have a strong name, since he would be the heir. We agreed that I could choose the name of our second child."

It crossed Drifa's mind that the throne was rather a heavy responsibility for a child to have looming in his future. Then again, perhaps by getting him used to the idea, Thor would have no problem when he grew older. She wondered whether his brother would grow up happy to be free from the pressure or maddeningly jealous of it.

"Do you have other children?" Frigga asked.

"Yes – a boy and another girl. Their names are Fandral and Ingrid."

"Are they here?"

"Fandral is. He is in his second century."

"As is Thor."

There was a pause. Frigga stared blankly at the air beside Drifa's head for a few moments, as if watching something behind her eyes. She soon turned back to Drifa and smiled.

"I wonder if they will be friends."

Drifa wondered what Frigga had seen. A vision, perhaps?

Suddenly she felt a hand on her upper arm and her eyes locked with the Queen. Her face was no longer a picture of respectfulness and peaceful mourning. It was the face of someone who knew too much – had seen too much – and her words needed to be heard.

"These babies we hold are the children of war," she said, her voice heavy. "They were born into blood and death. Their earliest memories, perhaps, will be of tragedy, pain and loss."

Drifa shivered, though she wasn't cold. Frigga's expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"That may be the past, but that is not the future we want for them. Wars follow wars; that has always been the way. The roots of Yggdrasil have been fed with blood for millennia. We must break the cycle. We must make this the end so that our children can begin."

The woman stared deeply into Drifa's eyes before releasing her arm and bidding her farewell. She didn't bother to look where the Queen went next.

Gazing down at Svala, she wondered why Frigga had given that speech. There had been a glint in her eyes that Drifa found impossible to interpret, and it puzzled her. Had she not been so confused, perhaps she would have the sense to be afraid. Even so, throughout the wake, on the way home, all through the night and over the coming months – years, even – part of what had been said stayed with her, echoing in her mind.

_We must make this the end, so that our children can begin._

* * *

**Author's Note: In case you were wondering, 'kettafruit' is something I made up because I figured orange juice isn't terribly Asgardian. 'Ketta', I discovered using that wonderful resource known as Google, is a word the Vikings used for a female cat. I'm not sure why I wanted to call it 'femalecatfruit', but hey! There are some very strange names for fruit in the world, so why not?**

**The next chapter will involve an accidental act of arson (ooooh, alliteration!) committed by a very young Thor and Fandral. Please do read it when it's posted!**

**Thank you for reading :)**


	2. The Fire

**Author's Note:** **Here is the next chapter – some childish fun involving an angry old lady's garden and some magic floating candles!**

**The next chapter involves Thor meeting Volstagg in a variety of awkward situations and the chapter after that focuses on Sif.**

* * *

**Chapter 2: The Fire**

"Fandral! Lift your side up more, I am carrying all of it!"

"No you are not!" Fandral wasn't falling for that. Thor was just trying to get him to take more of the weight. It wasn't even his idea to bring the ladder, so he didn't see why he had to carry it.

"It's your ladder! Besides, if I don't hold Loki's hand he might get lost, so I only have one arm." Thor looked fairly pleased with his logic, and Fandral understood. But still.

"I told you not to bring him," he muttered, lifting the ladder slightly higher. He decided he would just lower it again slowly so that Thor wouldn't notice. It was always good to at least appear to obey the little prince.

"He is my brother. I will always bring him."

They were almost there now. Fandral could see the wall of Gudny Herjolfdóttir's garden from between the leaves of the bushes they were walking through, impossibly tall and hugged by vines. He wasn't sure if what they were doing was such a great idea now that they could see the wall – it was taller than he remembered – but he wasn't going to be the one to say it. If they managed to get there with this giant ladder without being seen and sent home, they _had_ to do it, and he wouldn't have Thor thinking he was a cowardly little puppy.

Gudny Herjolfdóttir was a thing as ancient as the bark of Yggdrasil itself, and many times more wrinkled. She – if 'she' could be used, for surely it was not a woman – regularly scolded Thor and Fandral when they played near her house, and became absolutely livid if anything of theirs – a ball, for example – ended up in her garden. Ambjorg, Thor's nursemaid, often had to come to the rescue, placating the angry she-beast and admonishing the two boys severely. Apparently Gudny Herjolfdóttir was a woman of high standing among Asgard's nobility and should be treated with respect. Perhaps if she behaved like she deserved it, thought Fandral, she might actually get it. He supposed that maybe that was just how people as old as the nine realms were, but regardless, her antagonism encouraged the boys to target her, and, more specifically, her precious garden.

It was for this reason that Fandral and Thor plotted to borrow Fandral's grandfather's ladder and scale the garden wall. The property was considered within the bounds of Asgard's city, but its back looked out on a small forest – the same small forest that bordered Fandral's grandparents' farmhouse. This location allowed the boys to take the ladder and approach unnoticed through the trees and bushes, and gave them somewhere to make a quick escape if necessary.

So far, everything had gone according to plan. Fandral's grandparents didn't notice them taking the ladder, and were not suspicious of their whereabouts since they often played in the forest. They had also managed to find Gudny Herjolfdóttir's house without getting lost, which was quite a feat given the thickness of the forest. They had even not come across any of the forest spirits or evil creatures that his grandmother always warned him about! That had been what Fandral feared the most, but it was still daytime, so they were probably safe. Bad things only came out at night. The only issue, as far as Fandral could see – and it was quite a significant issue – was the presence of Thor's little brother, whose unsteady steps and lack of coherent speech had already been getting on his nerves. Why had Thor thought it wise to bring a _baby_ with them? How would he climb the wall? How would he run when they had to escape?

His thoughts were interrupted when Thor stopped walking and he found himself directly in front of the wall. He looked up.

The wall loomed above them, mighty and unforgiving. It looked like a long way to fall, Fandral thought, glancing at the ladder. Suddenly something occurred to him.

"Thor, how will we get down on the other side?"

Without missing a beat, Thor replied: "We will use the vines to lower ourselves halfway and then we will jump."

Fandral didn't bother to question how Thor knew there would be vines on the other side because he had a far more difficult question already on his tongue. "And how will Loki get down?"

An expression of confusion passed across Thor's face, as though he wasn't sure how there could suddenly be something he hadn't thought of, before a haughty pride replaced it. "I will go over first, and then when you climb up you will toss him down to me. How else?"

Fandral was sceptical, but this seemed to be a decent enough solution. He hoped Loki wouldn't be afraid of heights though. He'd once tried to drop Svala down the stairs to Ingrid and she had screamed so shrilly that Fandral couldn't hear properly all day. If Loki screamed, Gudny Herjolfsdóttir would surely hear him and their plan would be ruined. Besides, as far as he'd observed, women hated it when babies screamed – his mother had been furious that time with Svala.

"You hold that side of the ladder and pull, and I'll hold this end and push," Thor instructed. "Loki, sit there and don't move."

Loki blinked up at him. "Yes, Thor."

Well at least the little boy understood instructions, thought Fandral, grabbing the ladder and pulling. Maybe one day he could come with them and not be a nuisance.

It took quite a lot of effort to position the ladder, in the end. Thor had insisted that Fandral wasn't pulling hard enough, but Fandral was sure it was Thor who wasn't pushing. At one point they had almost dropped it. Loki had wandered off to look at flowers and Thor had to try to coax his brother back without yelling or the use of his hands, which had distracted him somewhat from the task of ladder lifting. Now, however, the ladder was in place and the two boys gazed at it with pride, each believing that they were much more responsible for their success than the other.

"Excellent," said Thor, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "I shall climb the ladder. Make sure it does not slip – I will be testing it and if it doesn't hold up you can adjust it before you climb with Loki."

Fandral grinned. Part of him still couldn't believe how close they were to doing this! Thor climbed the ladder with no issues and disappeared over the top of the wall. Fandral realised that they didn't plan how they would communicate once Thor was on the other side. He didn't know if his friend had made it down. He waited a moment, and when Thor didn't reappear over the wall and he didn't hear any shouting from the other side, he assumed all must be well.

Loki was looking significantly more nervous now that he couldn't see his brother, but Fandral reminded himself that kids as young as him didn't feel complicated things like nervousness. He moved to pick Loki up and he backed away. Urgh. Why did he have to make this difficult?

"Thor has gone over the wall. I have to carry you over as well," he said.

"I want to stay here."

"You don't get to decide." In one swift move, he scooped up the younger boy. He was surprised to find that he weighed less than Svala, but he'd still need his cooperation if this was going to work. "You have to hold on to me," he said, even as Loki struggled in his grip.

"No!"

"Be quiet! Thor wants you to."

"No," his protests weakened as Fandral tightened his grip and prevented the boy from squirming.

"You have to."

Eventually Loki resigned himself to obedience and gripped Fandral firmly – arms around his neck and legs around his waist – freeing his arms for climbing. Well, one arm. The other was necessary to stop the younger boy from slipping. As Fandral climbed he did his best not to look down, for having only one arm made the ascent much more nerve-wracking, but Loki was not quite so wise. Strangely, it was not fear that Fandral noticed in the boy's expression, but curiosity.

"If we fell, would we die?" he asked.

"No talking," was the only response Fandral could bear to formulate.

At the top of the ladder he pulled himself up to sit on the wall, looking over to the other side to see Thor sitting on the ground below. It was an awfully long drop, but he did see vines leading all the way to the bottom. He supposed that was how Thor had gotten down.

"Thor!" he whispered urgently. The other boy looked up.

"Fandral! Throw Loki to me."

Fandral looked at Loki, whose expression was one of disbelief.

"_Throw_ me?"

"Yes. Thor's idea." He pried the frightened boy's limbs away from his body and prepared to position him above his brother's outstretched arms.

"No!" Tears began to form in the little boy's huge green eyes – seriously, had Fandral's eyes ever been that big? He looked ridiculous – and Fandral looked down at Thor.

"He is going to cry. Are you certain this will work?"

"He will not cry! He is my brother."

Fandral looked back at Thor's brother. Nope, he was definitely going to cry.

"If you say so, Thor," he sighed. "You better catch him!"

It was difficult to move Loki over the edge of the wall, what with his squirming and all, but once he was over the drop he went oddly still. Their eyes met.

"Do not drop me," he said. Fandral was confused. That certainly wasn't a tone he'd ever heard from Svala. "Thor is wrong and you shall get in trouble."

He was right. If – _if_ – Thor was wrong and Loki got hurt, Fandral would be in _heaps_ of trouble. He looked down to his friend, standing below with expectant arms and excited eyes. Then he looked back at Loki and shook his head.

"Don't try to convince me. Thor is never wrong." Not exactly true, he thought, but true enough, so he dropped him.

As it happened, Thor caught his brother without incident, and when Fandral had climbed down himself, he reasoned that it was because the wall wasn't actually as high as it seemed.

"We did it!" Thor grinned. "We're in Herjolfdóttir's garden!"

And what a garden it was! Much thicker and wilder than the palace gardens, this was more like an organised forest – a multi-levelled organised forest with a water feature and a neatly mown lawn. What was best was that there were only two windows at the back of the house, one in the kitchen and one upstairs, so they were fairly unlikely to be seen. At a close second best was that although there was space on the lawn for games like catch and ball kicking, there were also plenty of bushes and trees to play in up the steps on the raised areas near the back of the garden.

They decided first to play hide and seek because it was a game that Loki could easily join in with. They hid behind the trees and in the bushes and even behind the rocks of the water feature. It was actually a lot of fun to play in an unfamiliar place, and if, when it was Fandral's go, he pretended that he couldn't find Loki for far longer than it actually took to find him – well, Thor didn't notice.

It was during the third game that Thor found the candles. They were all around the garden; sitting nestled between rocks, floating in the trees, lying in the grass. In fact, it was through stepping on one that Thor found them.

"Fandral!" Thor called, excited. "Look! Candles."

Fandral hesitated before crawling out of his hiding place behind a particularly large and flowery bush.

"Yes, Thor, that is a candle."

"But they are everywhere!"

At this point Loki appeared from behind a tree trunk, curious to see what the fuss was about. Thor didn't look at him – he was too preoccupied looking for more candles.

"We have to light them!" he declared, "I am sure they look wonderful!"

Fandral didn't want to spoil the fun, but he felt it was his duty to point out the obvious. "How can we? We do not have any matches."

"We need none. We have these in the royal gardens. They are lit with magic and the spells have a switch if you are not a sorcerer. Gudny Herjólfdottir does not look much like a sorcerer to me, so she must have a switch."

"Thor is right," Loki added, looking pleased to be able to contribute to the proceedings. "Sorcerers look like people and not like trolls."

It didn't take them long to find the switch. The two older boys were giddy with excitement, and the garden's mysterious switch was no match for their determined eyes.

"Found it!" Fandral cried a little bit too loudly. He clamped a hand over his mouth and waited a moment in panic. When there was no screeching Herjolfdóttir and Thor seemed quite unconcerned by his sudden volume, he relaxed. By this time it was probably safe to assume that the old crone wasn't home anyway.

Thor examined the switch.

"Yes, that is definitely a switch. As First Prince of Asgard, I should get to push it, but since you are my friend and you were the one to find it, I present this honour to you."

He gave Fandral a little bow and the boy chuckled. "Oh, thank you, your gracious majesty." He addressed Thor the way his mother did when he gave his mock princely speeches during visits. Gazing at the switch, Fandral wondered how to make this look ceremonious – then he gave up and decided to just push it.

The candles came on with a flash, a small wisp of blue smoke rising from them at ignition. Magic. The tiny candles on the grass rose from their places, floating a short way off the ground, giving the impression that the garden was full of gently bobbing little points of light, almost like giant fireflies. The effect was nice, but slightly anticlimactic. Fandral supposed that lights like these looked nicer in the dark.

Thor walked forward and poked one of the candles. It wobbled slightly. He looked back at his friend and shrugged, disappointed.

"I imagined this to be more interesting," he said.

"As did I," Fandral replied. "Do you think magical flames burn the same way that regular ones do?"

Thor looked thoughtful for a moment before licking his fingers and pinching the flame of the closest candle. It was extinguished, and a thin line of smoke snaked its way up past the Prince's hand. A few seconds later, when the hand was withdrawn, another wisp of blue was released and the flame returned. The boys' eyebrows rose, and Fandral approached, selecting a dry leaf from the ground as he walked. He placed the leaf in the flame and it ignited, quickly curling in on itself and disintegrating. He dropped it and the flame soon fizzled out, refusing to relight. Ok, so only the candles relit when extinguished. That made sense.

The boys amused themselves burning different materials for quite some time, even attempting to see if the garden chairs were susceptible to the tiny flames, when a curious smell came to their attention.

"Is that… burning?" Thor asked.

"Smells like it."

They turned around. Not far from where they stood, a bush was on fire. Not a small fire, either – a raging, bush-engulfing fire. It was an odd sight, primarily because it was only that specific bush that burned, and the flames didn't appear to be spreading or dying down. Thor took a step towards it and Fandral held his arm.

"We shouldn't go near fires, Thor. Maybe we should leave."

"But there isn't fire anywhere else. This is strange."

At that moment, another bush behind them ignited.

"I'll turn off the candles," Fandral said, scurrying to the switch and pushing it – but the candles continued to burn.

"Fandral, turn them off!" Thor shouted as a tree was engulfed in flames. He could feel the heat now and the garden was alive with the crackling of blazing vegetation.

"I cannot!"

Panic was rising fast and as the two boys locked eyes, they knew there wasn't anything they could do.

"Let us leave _now_."

They bolted to the back of the garden, avoiding the flames that now engulfed almost all of Gudny Herjolfsdóttir's plants. Fandral began to climb the vines, praying that they wouldn't catch fire until the two of them had managed to escape.

Two.

Thor realised a second before Fandral could remind him.

"Loki!" he bellowed, taking a few steps back into the garden. "Loki! Where are you?"

Fandral, halfway up the wall, dropped back down onto the grass. The inferno was raging so violently by now that it was difficult to hear anything else. It was unlikely that Thor's brother could hear his yelling.

"Thor!" Fandral put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Where did you last see him?"

After a moment, Thor replied: "when we were looking for the switch! He could be anywhere in this garden!"

He took a few more steps and Fandral had to push him back.

"We need to call for help!" he cried, imploring. "You will get burnt if you try to go in there!"

"But Loki is burning!" Tears welled up in Thor's eyes and his lip trembled – something he would vehemently deny when asked about it later.

"We must call for help!" Fandral repeated.

Thor cast his eyes over the flames one more time, then nodded, threw his head back and screamed "AMBJORG!"

* * *

Thor and Fandral escaped the fire with little trouble – they climbed over the wall and down the ladder before running to the front of the house to see a large gathering of people and a squad of firewatchers attempting to quell the flames. Ambjorg, connected to her young royal charges by a magical link, was already present, and ran to Thor when she saw him, demanding to know what had happened. Thor told her everything. The plan, the games, the candles and the fire – the poor boy was nearly hysterical, consumed with fear for his younger brother, who, it would seem by his absence, was still trapped in the garden.

Indeed, he was still trapped. Having crawled away from the fires, Loki was sitting in the very middle of the lawn, curled into a tiny ball. Flames were slowly creeping across the grass, threatening to engulf him. Tears streamed across his pale face and as he opened his eyes, he felt the heat of the flames pressing in. Perhaps he would have burned to death in that old lady's garden. Perhaps he would have ended his short life in the malevolent embrace of the fire. Perhaps – if not for an unexpected saviour.

The form of Gudny Herjolfsdóttir was usually not a welcome sight under any circumstances, but it was her appearance, as she strode through the flames and scooped up the child huddled around himself in the middle of her lawn, that made all the difference. Loki refused to let go of the old woman for quite some time after he was removed from the garden, despite Ambjorg's attempts to coax him into her own arms. When Thor ran over to check that his brother was safe, the younger boy kicked out at him and screamed.

Years later, it was falsely assumed that Loki had been too young to remember the fire. He was told the story many times by different people, each trying harder than the last to trivialise the event – to turn it into a harmless childhood adventure gone awry, something to be laughed at in posterity. In truth, Loki actually couldn't remember most of the day of the fire. He didn't remember walking through the forest or being carried over the wall. He didn't remember playing hide and seek or retreating to the bushes when Thor and Fandral became too enthralled by the candles to notice him. He didn't remember willing the bushes to catch alight and being astounded when the flames obeyed him. The only thing he remembered clearly – although he couldn't remember specifically where from – was what he had felt while curled up on the lawn. Not the searing heat of the flames or the crackling of the dying plants, but the overwhelming fear and the acute awareness that he had been abandoned.

Over the centuries, no matter how many times Thor stood by him or saved him in battle, the intense feeling of betrayal and the inherent knowledge that Thor was to blame stayed with him. It was perhaps his earliest memory, and while it was foggy and distorted, it remained ingrained in his psyche – a permanent reminder that no matter how much his brother claimed to love him, and no matter how often he proved it, he had betrayed him. And Loki was sure he would do it again.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter, introducing Volstagg the Voluminous, will be posted soon.**


	3. Volstagg the Voluminous

**Author's Note: I think this is the happiest of all the chapters I've written so far, and it features Volstagg, the lion of Asgard.**

**The next chapter will focus on Sif, who has been shamefully neglected in previous chapters, and the chapter after that will contain a governess called Swanhild – or, as Thor and Loki call her, the Blood Axe.**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Volstagg the Voluminous**

The first time Thor saw Volstagg was when the warriors-in-training were formally presented at the palace. Thor was still very young – young enough that his height prevented him from seeing the food on the banquet tables when he stood beside them. It was an unusual ceremony, for it was during the day as opposed to the evening, and it was the first time for many years that it had taken place. During the war, and even for a while before it, the Allfather didn't have time to host a ceremony welcoming Asgard's potential future protectors to the royal court. Now that peace was relatively secure, however, and the warriors' primary function would hopefully be ceremonial, it seemed right that the formal presentation should take place.

Of the hundred-ish adolescent Asgardians, the young Thor remembered only Volstagg. Why? Well – none of the others had snuck away from their supervisors to have a sneak preview of the coming feast. Thor stood at the edge of the empty hall, watching as the teenager hovered over plates, snatching up the odd hog's leg or pheasant breast, stuffing his face with everything he thought wouldn't be missed. He spotted the little prince in the corner of his eye while he was gazing longingly at the barrels of ale and mead lined up against the far wall.

He looked a little panicked at first, but when Thor smiled and waved, he smiled and waved back.

"Hullo there," even back then his voice was loud and deep. "You won't give me away, will you, little warrior?"

He put the drinking horn strapped to his belt under the tap of an ale barrel and twisted the knob, letting out a 'ho ho!' of delight when the forbidden liquid trickled out. Taking a sizeable sip out of the horn, Volstagg nodded his head enthusiastically in approval, and filled it back up to the brim. He took another sip before sealing its cap and turning back to Thor.

"Goodbye, young friend," he said with a salute, and made his way to the exit. The apprentice to the chief of ceremonial feasts, who had been put in charge today, walked in as Volstagg walked out. He was surprised to see one of the young warriors in the room and looked about to scold him when Volstagg gave a little bow, said "good afternoon, sir. It's an excellent feast you have laid out there. Well done!" and left. The chief's apprentice looked so pleased with this compliment that he completely forgot about the reprimand that lay on his lips and cried out a flustered "thank you!" in response. When the other man wasn't looking, Volstagg turned and gave Thor a very theatrical wink before disappearing through the doors.

This first impression stayed with the young Thor for many months before he saw Volstagg again.

This time, the teenage warrior had been in the royal gardens with a stolen bottle of wine and a pile of stolen fruit. He appeared to have it from nearby trees – some of them very rare – and was nestled in a small clearing out of the way of the main path. When he saw Thor, he called out.

"Oh, it's you, little warrior! Come here and have some of this fruit. It's absolutely delectable!"

Thor tottered over and accepted the fruit.

"What is your name, Bjarki?"

"Thor."

Volstagg almost spat out the wine he was drinking.

"Prince Thor! Oh, wow. Uhh… hey, we're friends, right?" he asked, suddenly looking very nervous.

Thor thought about it for a moment before deciding that yes, they were, and he put on his most serious face to confirm it. "Yes, Mister. We are friends."

"Excellent. You're a good boy, Thor, and a good friend, yes?"

"Yes."

"So," Volstagg scratched the fluff on his chin that constituted his attempt at a beard. "Friend to friend, I'll promise to keep your secrets if you'll keep mine. You can't tell anyone where you see me, ok? It's… a game. People try to find me all the time. They'll say things like 'where's Volstagg? He should be in training!' and 'why is the food all gone? Was it Volstagg?' and I'll be somewhere far away, eating and possibly drinking, and they have to find me. They might ask you where I am, but that's cheating and if you tell them then you aren't being a very good friend, ok? And I know you are a good friend, so you mustn't do anything that makes it look like you aren't."

Thor nodded, absolutely serious. "Yes, Mister Volstagg."

The young warrior laughed and it sounded like rolling thunder. "Thor, my dear boy, call me Volstagg. None of this 'mister' nonsense."

"Yes Volstagg." Thor laughed now, too, and was annoyed at how unimpressive it sounded compared to the laugh of his new friend. One day, he swore silently, his laugh would sound like thunder, too.

Thor saw Volstagg from time to time for perhaps two centuries before he graduated to the next level of warrior training and began to spend much less time around the palace. Thor was older by then, but was still too young to visit his large friend – besides, his father had deemed the friendship 'inappropriate' and his brother still seemed very suspicious of the man. His mother was the only person Thor knew who liked Volstagg, claiming that he had 'a big heart' and 'a pure soul', but her kind words held little sway over the ever increasing number of people he had offended.

Naturally, then, Thor was surprised to see his friend, after a century of absence, back in the palace at the coming of age ball for the new ladies of the court.

* * *

The ceremony was incredibly boring for the young prince. He was old enough to understand what was going on, but still too young to take interest. The young ladies lined up in the hall in their ridiculous dresses were unexciting, and it was difficult to keep still for such a long time. He was stood at the edge of the steps leading up to his father's big chair holding his mother's hand. Loki was holding his mother's other hand and Thor was _so_ tempted to reach over and push him. Loki must have been bored, too, right? But his mother, having probably seen the idea forming in his mind, tightened her grip on his hand.

"Thor…" she warned quietly, frowning down at him. "Hold on a little bit longer, the ceremony will be finished soon, and the buffet will open."

Thor huffed and threw his gaze across the crowd once more.

"Will there be cakes, mother?" he heard Loki ask, but didn't hear the reply. He had spotted a messy nest of red hair and a bushy red beard shifting restlessly in the middle of the neat and motionless crowd.

"Volstagg!" he whispered.

"Who?" His brother asked.

Thor shook his head. "I'll show you later."

When the ceremony finally came to a close and the celebrations began, Thor made a beeline for Volstagg, Loki following close behind. All around them people began to dance and pour themselves drinks, but Volstagg just stood there, looking more awkward than a bilgesnipe in a busy market. Thor noticed with confusion that he had combed his frizzy locks and attempted to tie them into some semblance of a neat arrangement. He was also wearing dress armour and didn't appear to have any food hidden about his person at all.

Thor stopped in front of his old friend and smiled.

"Volstagg!"

"Oh!" the man looked quite startled at the prince's appearance. "Thor! It has been quite a while, hasn't it? My, you've grown! You will be a proper warrior soon."

Thor grinned before taking his brother's hand and thrusting him before the redheaded giant. "This is my brother!"

Loki, being a fair bit smaller than Thor, was tiny compared to the man-mountain that was Volstagg, and seemed to be quite afraid.

"Why, hullo, little prince!" Volstagg bent down slightly. "Your name is Loki, yes?"

The boy nodded.

Thor looked around while his brother talked to his old friend. He couldn't see Fandral, but then his family didn't often come to these events. Although their association with Thor had gained them an invite to all palace events, and an offer of an official title – Drifa would become Lady Drifa and they could live in a much bigger house – they had declined. Thor didn't understand why, but his mother assured him that it was a perfectly valid choice and that Fandral would be fine either way. Still, Thor wished his friend would be here at times like this.

Suddenly Thor became aware that their little group was being watched. Many of the surrounding men and women were staring, their eyes flitting between Volstagg and the princes. Thor wondered what was so interesting. He turned away from them to see that Volstagg had bent down to Loki and was saying something very quietly while the boy scanned the crowd. Feeling very left out, Thor rejoined the conversation, shoving Loki so that he could be closer to Volstagg.

"What is it?" Thor asked.

"Volstagg is here to see a lady!" Loki hissed, irritated at Thor's aggressive interruption. "You have to promise not to give him away. It's a game. She isn't allowed to know that he is here for her."

"Who is it?"

"If I tell you, you mustn't stare," Volstagg said. "She is the one in the red dress – with the golden tiara. She is the one who is quite plump. But very pretty!" He breathed in deeply. "She's the prettiest lady in Asgard."

"You should go and talk to her right now!" Thor exclaimed.

Volstagg shook his head. "She's dancing with a gentleman. She won't want to see me."

"No!" Thor stamped his princely foot. "You are a warrior of Asgard and you will not be afraid of a lady, pretty or not. As First Prince of Asgard I command you to talk to her!"

Volstagg laughed his thunderous laugh. "If you command me, your majesty, I must obey. But I reserve the right to have some mead beforehand."

"You may drink your mead," Thor said, absolutely serious. "But then you must promise to fulfil my command."

"You have my word." Volstagg stood up and bowed deeply before heading off in the direction of the barrels. Thor turned to Loki.

"Volstagg is nice, isn't he?"

"Yes he is," Loki agreed. "But I don't think the red dress lady is that pretty."

Thor frowned at his brother.

Loki continued: "green dress ladies are always the prettiest."

* * *

Volstagg shook his head as he gulped down his mead. Why did he come here? He wasn't actually going to talk to Hildegund – he knew he wasn't. This whole thing had been a waste of time. He wished he hadn't told the princes, and actually wasn't sure why he did. There had been something about the little one's big round eyes and gently probing questions that made him forget that he wanted to keep it quiet.

Pouring the last of his mead down his throat, Volstagg made his way toward the buffet table. There was no way Hildegund would want to see him. What had she said to him last time? He tossed a small pastry into his mouth. Oh yes, 'if you dare open your mouth in my presence again, I'll stuff it full of pies and hope you choke'. The pies didn't sound like such a bad thing, but the choking was something he would prefer to avoid.

He picked up a few pig ribs and began to remove the meat. A woman a short way away from him wrinkled her face in disgust at him. He waved at her and she quickly turned away, embarrassed for being caught staring. There was nothing for it – he would have to leave. Feeling foolish, Volstagg began to walk in the general direction of the door.

"Volstagg!"

It was Thor again. He took a deep breath and prepared to turn to face the boy, putting on his most friendly face. What he saw when he turned around made his jaw drop. Thor was standing a meter away from Hildegund, who was holding a flower and leaning down slightly to talk to Loki. At the sound of his name, the woman stood bolt upright and looked around. The look on his face when their eyes met was venomous.

"Volstagg!" Thor took his hand and led him closer to the woman. He hadn't the heart to resist, so he decided instead to give Hildegund his best apologetic look and just go along with it. "Hildegund, this is our friend Volstagg, and Volstagg this is our new friend Hildegund."

"Hello, Volstagg." Her voice was as cold as her expression.

"Madam," he said, and bowed slightly.

Thor was looking very pleased with himself, but it seemed Loki could sense the tension. He tugged on Hildegund's hand.

"Mister Volstagg is very nice, Miss Hildegund. Please speak with him."

Her face softened considerably and she gave the child a warm smile.

"I will, little one. Now you and your brother should run along. Go to the buffet and get some meat in that tiny belly!"

The boy grinned. "I will, Miss Hildegund!"

And suddenly Volstagg and Hildegund were alone. Well – as alone as possible in a hall full of people. She looked at him with only slightly less scorn than before, but it was a start, at least.

He chuckled. "Sweet boys, aren't they?"

"Did you tell them to talk to me?"

The aggression in her voice caught him off guard. "No!" he exclaimed. "No, I told them quite the opposite! I mean, I said – well, I – What I mean is… I didn't mean to point you out to them, I just… and…" he trailed off. He was digging himself a rather large hole and decided to stop before it would no longer be possible to climb out. "Who gave you that flower?" he asked and could have smacked himself. It was none of his business.

"It is none of your business," she answered curtly. Fair enough, really. "But if you must know it was given to me by those sneaky princes. I suppose they thought it might charm me enough to make me receptive to your company."

"Well we are speaking," he pointed out.

"Yes, well. I will admit that they _are_ charming children."

She seemed to be relaxing slightly, and Volstagg saw that this was a topic of conversation worth pursuing.

"What did they speak to you about? Their minds go so quickly I often have difficulty keeping up. Well, Thor's at least. I have only met his brother tonight."

"They spoke of their excitement for the ceremony and how much they love feasts. Thor then wandered off, I suppose in search of you. The younger one – his name is Loki, isn't it? – he spent some time complimenting my hair and asking about the dresses, and managed to distract me so much that I never even saw you approach. In fact, he did mention you. He said you liked red dresses the most."

Volstagg laughed. "That boy – you don't notice him at first, but when he speaks to you he seems to know exactly what to say."

Hildegund nodded. She began to look around the hall, as though searching for a reason to excuse herself. Volstagg realised that it was now or never.

"Hildegund," he began, his voice soft. "I would like to speak with you. I am ashamed of my behaviour and I wish to put things right."

Her expression hardened in a second.

"You wish to put things right? You cannot. They are permanently broken. I refuse to waste any more of my time with you."

"Please," he begged. "Five minutes is all I ask. Five minutes and I will be gone from your sight forever. Please."

She paused, refusing to meet his eye.

"Five minutes, Volstagg. I shall allow no more."

They made their way across the hall and exited onto the balcony. There were a few people standing on it, chatting quietly while looking across the city below, so they walked to the far end – the most private spot they could find.

"Speak." Hildegund faced Volstagg with crossed arms and a stony expression.

He took a deep breath.

"Hildegund. I know that I am not a well-behaved man. I have been offending people and ruining things my entire life – I'm clumsy and greedy and sometimes I do not think. I am sorry that I could not be the man you wanted me to be. Genuinely. Think what you will of me, Hildegund, but I do love you. I do not blame you for wanting rid of me, and I do not expect a second chance. I just wanted to apologise and to hope that one day I may earn your forgiveness."

He tried to speak slowly and carefully, but the speech he had semi-rehearsed for the last few weeks came out a little too quickly. He prayed Hildegund would accept the apology, and a small part of him, a part he tried to pretend wasn't that selfish, hoped that she would take him back, regardless of the fact he didn't deserve her.

"Is that it?" Hildegund asked. Volstagg tried to read her face. "Is that all you have to say? Unimpressive."

He blinked a few times, confused. "What do you–"

"What do I mean?" The woman's temper flared. "Do you know what you have done to me? I am a laughing stock. I am the nobleman's daughter who gave herself to that slothful, gluttonous pig of a warrior, Volstagg! Nobody will go near me now, I will never find a husband, nor will I ever be accepted back into the society of the ladies of the court. The only reason I am here tonight is in the hopes that I may project a favourable image to those who have yet to meet me."

Horrified at her outburst, Volstagg didn't know what to say. "I… I caused that?"

"Yes, that and more! You have humiliated me time and again with your terrible manners and the awful company you keep. The only reason I kept you was for love – for our sacred, sacred bond – and for the hope that one day, when you were older and a full warrior, you might develop a sense of honour and stop behaving like a common, foolish child! I tried so hard to maintain that faith in you, through all the drunken mishaps and the dishonour you insisted on pouring over yourself, but seeing you in that tavern – seeing you with that _whore_ – was the last straw! Nothing you can say will change that or change what you have done to me."

Volstagg's mouth was agape. "Geirny? Is she what this is about? I had nothing to do with her!"

"_You were_ _kissing her!_"

"I was?"

"See, you can't even remember! This is exactly the point I am making. You are irresponsible, you are impulsive, and you are _humiliating_. You are clearly too childish for love. You are unwilling to let go of your base amusements and provide me the stability and loyalty that I need. For that reason, Volstagg, this relationship must end. One day perhaps, once you are thoroughly forgotten, I can redeem my reputation and find happiness. I wish you all the best in your tavern-hopping. I hope you manage to stay in training until you are a warrior."

She turned to leave and Volstagg panicked. He felt as though she had pressed a dagger through his chest. She was right. His behaviour had been appalling – he had shamed her and himself countless times. He had ignored her, had insulted her, had been cruel to her. She was right. He knew she was right, and he wasn't even worthy to look upon her. However, as she turned to walk away, Volstagg had a revelation. Not a conscious one, but an unexpected rush of emotion. She was the world.

The words bubbled up through his chest and gushed from his lips.

"Marry me, Hildegund."

She froze. Volstagg shivered in fear of what her next words would be.

"Excuse me?" She turned back, her face an odd mask of disgust, confusion and… was that hope?

"You are right," he said, his voice breaking. Tears welled up in his eyes and he commanded them to sink back to whence they came. "I have been childish – and very cruel; but I never lied to you, Hildegund. I love you with all of my being. My heart, my mind… my beard, my stomach," he smiled. "I love you more than the ground on which we stand and all the creatures that live upon it. I am prepared to be the man you need – the man _I_ need. I can't bear to lose you. Please, Hildegund," he gazed at her, urging her to understand. Urging the truth to pour out of his eyes. "Marry me."

She stood in silence, examining his face.

"Whatever answer I give you is temporary," she said, finally. He frowned. "Should I say yes, and you fail in your endeavours, I do not wish to be eternally bound to you. You will be given a trial period in which we shall not speak of our engagement until I am sure that you will not betray me. Should I say no, however, and you prove me wrong, I reserve the right to adjust my response to a yes. Those are my conditions."

Confused, Volstagg prompted her. "What is your answer, then?"

"You will find out at the end of the evening."

* * *

Two years later, Thor saw Volstagg at another ceremony in the palace. This time, however, he was not surprised to see him.

The wedding of Volstagg and Hildegund was a merry occasion involving much ale and many roasted boars. The gathered noblemen and ladies agreed that they had hardly ever seen a bride so radiantly happy, nor a groom so enraptured by his new wife. As the couple danced under the keen and rather intrusive gaze of their guests, Hildegund placed her head on Volstagg's shoulder. It was a sight that the young Thor would never forget.

* * *

**Author's note: Thank you for reading!**

**Hildegund, by the way, is Volstagg's wife in the comics. I discovered this on the marvel wiki, so if you're interested you can go check her out, although there isn't a whole lot of information about her. I thought it was kind of interesting that Volstagg was the only one of the Warriors Three to have a wife and kids, so I wanted to take a look at that side of his life in this chapter.**

**Also, in case you wondered, Bjarki (one of the names that Volstagg used to address Thor) is a Viking word for 'little bear' and was used as a nickname.**

**The next chapter will focus on the wonderful Lady Sif. You'll like it, I promise!**


	4. Your Sister is a Mighty Warrior

**Author's Note: Here is the chapter featuring Sif, with guest appearances from her brothers (whom I completely made up!) and Frømund the trainer (also made up).**

**The next chapter will contain the comeback of Mr Frømund, who is still a bit of a prick, and the introduction of Swannhild, a somewhat violent royal governess. The chapter after that will involve the (accidental?) destruction of the palace kitchens.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Your Sister is a Mighty Warrior**

Heimdall wasn't her full brother – he had been born during their father's first marriage. His mother had died while he was still fairly young, and her mother had helped to take care of him. Her father had once told her that, much to the family's amusement, the people of Midgard had misconstrued these events and believed that Heimdall had nine mothers.

It wasn't until after Heimdall had entered adulthood that Sif's parents had married and produced three children. Bjorn, Finnvid and Halli were the names of Sif's other brothers, each of them older than her. Although their levels of fanaticism varied, the three boys were enthusiastic warriors from a young age, and never left Sif out of their games. They had made it their mission to make their beloved sister the perfect girl, which, of course, ended up with her being more boyish than anything.

It had been during one of their games that Sif encountered Thor for the first time.

* * *

"Sif! He's over there!"

"I'm here, Sif, come get me!"

"Go on, Sister, slay him!"

The young Sif hefted her foam staff over her shoulder and ran at Halli, who was half-hiding behind a tree. When she reached him, she paused, her little face crumpled with pretend rage.

"Die, frosty giant!" she bellowed – as much as a little girl can bellow – and swung the staff at her brother. It connected with his shoulder with a loud smack and he laughed. Then he gasped.

"Look out, Sister! There's another behind you!"

She swivelled around as fast as she could and gazed up at Bjorn, significantly taller than her, his arms outstretched and a comically villainous expression on his face.

"No!" she screeched, smacking him repeatedly with the staff – but to no avail. He kneeled down and smothered his sister in a hug.

"Ha ha! I have you now, Sif!"

She struggled, laughing, until Finnvid came to her rescue, attacking his older brother with a foam sword. Bjorn let her go and pretended to die, making his little sister giggle.

"You, there!" an unfamiliar voice called.

The four siblings' heads snapped up in the direction of the voice. They were playing in the royal gardens; technically they weren't supposed to make noise in here, and they had almost been banned several times already. What they saw calmed them, though. Two young boys, about Halli's age and both as blond as the Queen herself, stood at the end of a flower-lined pathway.

The slightly shorter one had spoken before, but now the taller one did.

"My name is Thor and this is Fandral. What are your names?"

Sif noticed her brothers' faces change after hearing his name. She couldn't tell what they were thinking, but there was definitely a reaction. Why?

Thinking her brothers' silence rude, Sif answered: "I am Sif. This is Bjorn, Finnvid and Halli." She pointed to each of her brothers as she said his name. "It is nice to meet you, Thor and Fandral. Are you brothers?"

At this the two boys grinned.

"No, we are not," Thor answered. "I have a brother, but he is not here."

"And I have two sisters," Fandral added.

Sif was beginning to get suspicious of her brothers' strange behaviour when Bjorn announced that they had to leave. The brothers' training began in an hour and they had to get home in time to prepare. Sif pouted. She didn't want to stop playing. Thor and Fandral looked disappointed when their new acquaintances prepared to leave, and an idea struck her.

"I do not have training! I can stay here and play, can't I, Bjorn?"

Her eldest brother considered for a moment.

"Yes. I can pick you up later. Where will you be?"

She looked to Thor, who said "probably here, but maybe inside. If you ask at the palace doors I think Alrik will be there and he will help you find her. He is the big guard with the red beard."

Bjorn nodded and smiled. "Have fun, little sister!"

Her brothers left, Halli patting her on the head as he walked past her.

"So!" Fandral began, a smile lighting up his face. "What shall we play?"

It was Sif's turn to grin.

"Well I have a staff, so I must be a warrior!"

Thor stepped forward to stand beside her. "And I have a hammer!" he said, proudly lifting a small foam hammer above his head.

Fandral grimaced. "But that is not fair! I do not have a weapon and I refuse to be a frost giant again." He paused. "There are no female warriors," he said, eyeing Sif with suspicion.

"There are no female frost giants," Thor pointed out with confidence, "but there are female warriors. What about the mighty Brunnhilde?"

"She is a Valkyrie, she doesn't count."

"Well maybe I am a Valkyrie!" Sif exclaimed.

Fandral hung his head in resignation.

"Fine. I will be the frost giant. Promise me, though, that when Loki gets back he will be the giant. I don't like it and he is a terrible warrior anyway."

Thor grinned. "I will only promise if you are the best frost giant you can be. You cannot simply wait for Loki."

The three played their game for what felt like weeks – Thor and Sif worked together to track Fandral through the gardens, hiding from thunderstorms and blizzards in caves, killing wild beasts for food, and saving innocent villages from terrible fates. Eventually Fandral's role as a giant became redundant and he joined the other two as a third warrior, using an imagined sword to smite imagined foes.

Thor's brother never did join them, and soon enough Bjorn was back to pick her up. It wasn't fair – she wasn't at all ready to go home – but she was pleased to see her brother.

"Bjorn! We have been on a journey through the realms!" she cried as she bounded towards him.

"Indeed," Thor added, "your sister is a mighty warrior!"

* * *

From that day on, Sif met Thor, often with Fandral, at least once a week. Before long she had met his mother, who gave her some delicious honeyed milk, and his brother, who had been quite friendly for a time. Sif never found out what she did to upset him, but whatever it was, he maintained a frosty disposition towards her from that day onwards. She didn't meet Thor's father, but she supposed that he was quite busy, given that he was the king. That was something it had taken Sif quite a long time to realise, actually. When Thor had first mentioned being the First Prince of Asgard, she had thought it was part of their game – it wasn't until the queen came to fetch them from the gardens that she began to believe him.

This went on for a number of years, and Sif came to think of Thor and Fandral as her best friends. The games they played were thrilling and packed with adventure and danger. Sometimes they played in the woods instead of in the gardens, and sometimes they played on the farms. It was bliss. Eventually, however, Thor and Fandral began to talk about their upcoming warrior training, and Sif felt somewhat isolated. Even Thor's little brother, who technically wasn't old enough, was to begin training.

So Sif did what any confused child does - she consulted her mother.

"When do I start my training?" she had asked one afternoon, watching her mother kneading a lump of dough that would soon become bread.

The woman laughed, smiling at her daughter. "Oh, Sif. You do not have to train. You are going to be a lady – you will never be required to defend yourself, since you will always be protected."

Sif frowned, genuinely confused. "But then how will I become a warrior?"

Her mother's smile wilted and she looked at her daughter with a mildly puzzled expression in her eyes. "Why, my dear – do you want to be a warrior?"

"Yes," she said simply. What was strange about that?

"Oh," was the only reply.

There had been discussions between her parents. She knew because she had eavesdropped. Her mother was concerned about the future of a girl warrior. Would she be of use? Would anyone hire her? Would she ever marry? Her father was less concerned. She was a lady, and in today's Asgard, she had just as many rights as men. She didn't need to marry to survive, and she would easily be hired – she was a friend of the crown prince!

There was another issue, however: no trainer would take her. There were communal training classes in the city, but Sif's parents were not about to send their daughter to one of those. They were nobility, and insisted on a private tutor. However, no tutor wanted to give up centuries training one girl. They wanted to train a boy, or a group of children. Sif's brothers had been training for too long for her to join them, so there wasn't much the family could do.

This was how it came to be that Sif trained with Thor.

Thor had already invited Fandral to train with him and his younger brother. Two was not an ideal number for training, especially with Loki being slightly too young, so Thor invited Fandral to join them with much enthusiasm. Still, three was an uneven number. When Sif explained to them the difficulties she was having finding a trainer, she was invited in an instant.

* * *

Frømund the trainer didn't take Sif seriously for a long time.

Despite the fact that none of his pupils were particularly skilled at the beginning, he decided to pick on Sif's mistakes significantly more than the others. To be fair, Thor and Loki were princes – the latter having the added excuse of being the youngest in the group by a number of years – so he wasn't terribly inclined to pick on them. Frømund was a nervous character, and wasn't about to risk the wrath of the House of Odin. So that left Sif and Fandral, and of the two, Frømund seemed to have taken a liking to Fandral, and maintained a flagrant disinterest in Sif. He would casually use her flaws as examples for the group, even when they were being perpetrated equally frequently by each of the others, and would, without fail, find a way to pin her mistakes on her gender. It was infuriating.

Worse – and Sif felt slightly guilty for thinking this – he would always partner her with Loki during practices. It made sense, in a way, putting the youngest pupil with the female one, but it enraged her. It wasn't so much because it proved that Frømund thought her weaker than the others, although that alone incensed her, but that she didn't have an opportunity to prove herself. Although she generally defeated the younger boy during sparring with ease, she felt that she always had to hold back somewhat to avoid hurting him, and could never demonstrate the full extent of her abilities to her instructor. Complicating matters was Loki's growing coldness towards her – evidently he had picked up on her carefulness and resented it with increasing vehemence.

The change came on the day Loki was unable to come to practice. Apparently he and Thor had been playing on the glittering walkway leading to the bifrost and he had slipped off the edge into the water below. Heimdall managed to fish him out before he fell off the edge of the realm, but the cold walk back to the palace in his sodden clothes had caused him to contract a fairly violent flu, leaving him bedridden and quite unable to attend training. Thor had been reluctant to attend as well, this being the first illness he remembered in his brother's life, but the queen forced him to go, arguing that his presence in Loki's chambers was more disruptive than supportive.

As a result of Loki's absence, when it came to sparring, Frømund had them rotating – Thor and Fandral first, then Sif and Fandral, then Sif and Thor and so on. During the first match, Sif watched the two boys carefully. She hadn't had much of a chance to watch their technique, and wasn't sure how to go about attacking either of them, especially fighting without practice weapons, as they were today. They seemed fairly well matched, and she realised it was going to be very different sparring with them than with Loki. Glancing at Frømund, she really hoped she didn't mess up.

The match between Thor and Fandral ended up being a tie – it went on for quite a while before Frømund interrupted.

"Excellent work, you two. I think that round will have no winner. You mustn't tire yourselves out too much; we will be doing several rotations before you leave today." He turned around and looked at Sif as though he just noticed her presence. "Fandral," he smiled, "it is your turn to spar with Sif first. Be careful, though. She is not as strong as you or Thor."

Sif narrowed her eyes, an uncharacteristically smug smile finding its way onto her face as Fandral walked over to her. Sif was a girl, Sif was gentle, Sif was delicate. She couldn't wait to shatter Frømund's ridiculous prejudices.

"Begin!" the trainer called.

One of the earliest lessons they had been taught was not to attack first without the element of surprise – in situations such as these, where opponents were one-on-one and attack was expected, the first to lunge forwards would often leave themselves vulnerable. Bearing this in mind, Sif held her ground, keeping herself facing Fandral as he circled her. She could see it in his eyes that he was going to lose his patience first, perhaps overconfident due to Frømund's persistent dismissal of her abilities.

She was right. With a comical roar, Fandral launched himself towards Sif, arms wide and outstretched. He looked like he was going to try to tackle her to the ground. She set her shoulders, crouching slightly, ready to meet his attack – but when he came near, when he was a mere hair's breadth away from her, she dodged him. Fandral was startled at her sudden disappearance and lost his balance slightly. Sif took full advantage of his distraction, grabbing his shoulders and using the momentum from his charge, as well as a little of her own strength, spun him around and flipped him onto his back. The air was knocked out of Fandral's lungs, and before he even had a chance to take another breath, Sif had pinned him down, her forearm across his neck.

"Yield!" she yelled.

"Ahh!" Fandral cringed at her volume. "I yield! Don't shout."

Sif stood up quickly, offering a hand to help her friend off the ground. He took it, looking more bewildered than embarrassed. The young girl levelled an almost challenging glare at her trainer. To his credit, Frømund only looked shocked for about thirty seconds before regaining his composure.

"Well done, Sif!" he exclaimed. "Now, rotate. Thor, it is your turn to fight the Valkyrie."

Sif buried a smirk at being called a Valkyrie. She could see in his eyes that Frømund believed her victory to be a fluke, and he clearly didn't mean the compliment he had paid her. She needed to win again.

To be fair, Sif did almost beat Thor. She held her own in the fight, which was, she could tell by his expression, more than Frømund had been expecting. Thor had been watching when Fandral was caught unawares, and wasn't about to fall for the same trick. Sif was forced to yield, but won her next match against Fandral, and the second fight against Thor was declared a tie. She could see the pride in Thor's eyes, and the mild irritation in Fandral's, but what really made her day was the look of utter bafflement in Frømund's.

At the end of training, Frømund asked Sif to stay so that he could speak with her. She was a little worried that she may have upset him in some way, but steeled her nerves. She had done nothing wrong. In fact, she was so prepared to be admonished that she was thoroughly taken aback by the trainer's words.

"I apologise, young Sif," he said, shifting uncomfortably, his nervous disposition becoming apparent. "I believe I have been very unfair to you in the past."

Sif nodded weakly, unsure of how to respond.

"I promise in future to treat you with a respect that befits your talents as a warrior. You may leave." He nodded to her and gestured towards the exit.

It wasn't the best apology the young girl had ever heard, but she supposed it was the best she was going to get. She bowed slightly to Frømund, as etiquette required, and left the training grounds.

From that day forth, Sif was never ignored in training again. In fact, it became much more exhausting as Frømund put more and more effort into pushing her as much as he did Fandral and Thor, and when Loki returned after recovering from his illness, he had taken her place as Frømund's least favourite pupil. She was finally beginning to earn respect as a warrior, even if that respect was only enough to have her training taken seriously. It was a start – a leap! Before she was unable even to find a trainer, and now she had proven herself, had been wholeheartedly accepted.

There were many more obstacles to overcome in her life. The path of a woman warrior was not easy, and many tried to prevent her – but the memory of that day, the day when she won the respect of her first trainer, always reminded her that it was not impossible.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you again for reading!**

**The next chaper, posted soon, will delve into the subject of education and the mad woman hired by the House of Odin to provide it. Please keep an eye out for the update!**


	5. Swanhild the Blood Axe

**Author's Note: Here is chapter 5, Thor and Loki's first encounter with star-crossed lovers.**

**In the next chapter, Loki will discover that he can break things without touching them, and in the chapter after that, there will be a fairly serious accident in the stables.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Swanhild the Blood Axe and Frømund the Nervous**

The princes were late for their tutoring session with Swanhild, and neither had noticed. It was rare for Frømund to keep them past the end of training, and it was difficult to keep track of time when you were busy being pinned to the ground. Loki had his face pressed into the dirt of the training grounds and Sif's elbow in his back for the umpteenth time when he noticed Swanhild charging down from the palace. He felt a brief surge of panic, apprehensive of her temper, before being overcome by curiosity. A meeting of the Blood Axe and the Nervous – this would be interesting.

"Excuse me, you cretinous brute!" Swanhild roared. "You have retained my pupils for far longer than your allotted time and I demand you release them."

Frømund's eyes widened in shock and confusion.

"I… no! Who are you?" He tried to exude authority, but the shaking in his voice and his fright after being shouted at somewhat undermined him.

"I do not need to answer to you," Swanhild spat. Frømund recoiled involuntarily. "Thor, Loki, come here now."

Sif took more than a moment to remove her elbow, staring in open-mouthed awe at the woman who had cowed their trainer.

"Sif…" Loki began, and she started.

"Oh, sorry," and the elbow was gone.

Loki got up and walked swiftly to where Thor stood next to their tutor. He watched with interest as Swanhild shot a withering glare at Frømund and turned away to walk back up to the palace, but the trainer just stared at her, disbelief still firmly planted on his face. It was sad, really, how little authority Frømund truly possessed – Loki supposed his nervous disposition was the reason why such a skilled fighter was not a fully-fledged warrior. Before turning to follow Swanhild and Thor, Loki cast his gaze over Fandral and Sif, who simply looked confused, and then back to Frømund. The man's expression had changed subtly. He was still shocked and more than a little frightened, but Loki thought he detected a glimmer of admiration directed at the back of the retreating Blood Axe.

* * *

Swanhild was a terrifying woman and an excellent scholar. She was unusually young for a governess and fairly pretty, in a frightening kind of way. Her features were sharp, her brown eyes icy, and her blonde hair pulled into a permanent tight bun. Coming from a fairly poor family, she needed to earn money to fund her studies, and since she possessed no magic, she could not earn it the way most young female scholars did. She became a tutor to solve this problem, and although she made more children cry than possibly any tutor in the history of Asgard, she was widely known as an exceptional teacher. It was through this reputation that she came to be employed by the House of Odin to educate the two young princes, teaching them for a few hours every day. In return, she could live in the palace, eat in the banquet hall for free, and had more than enough money to fund her studies.

The two princes hadn't known what to expect when they first met Swanhild, since she was their first tutor, but in their experience pretty young ladies tended to give them plenty of freedom and fetch them things like honeyed milk to drink and foam weapons to play with. Swanhild did nothing of the sort. She ruled the study with an iron fist, refusing to waste time on fun and chatter. Her charges _would_ learn, and they would do it with discipline and respect. If either prince began to toe the line of unacceptable behaviour, he was immediately put back in his place with a swift slap on the wrist and a barrage of shouted reprimands. She had quickly earned the nickname of 'Blood Axe', although the princes would never dare say it near her.

Loki had to admit, though, that despite her violent demeanour and penchant for yelling, he quite liked Swanhild. She was one of the only people the princes came into contact with who would praise him more often than Thor, and based her treatment of them entirely on what they did rather than on which of them was more charming. Thor was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a natural scholar, and so he found concentrating on the lessons very difficult. His restlessness and lack of progress incensed Swanhild, whereas Loki's quiet attentiveness pleased her to no end. He hoped that she would never notice his subtle efforts to distract his brother, because although he didn't want to upset the favourable rapport he had established with the Blood Axe, it was just far too much fun to watch her shout at Thor.

It was Loki who first noticed Frømund's interest in Swanhild.

One day after training, he noticed the man following them back up to the palace. When the boy would turn around, Frømund would pretend he was looking at something or trying to find someone, but his utter lack of subtlety and his nervous twitching betrayed him. Curious, Loki didn't say anything to Thor and simply allowed Frømund to follow them, glancing back occasionally to see if he was still there.

"Good afternoon," Swanhild greeted them when they reached her study. She had just left the room, probably in search of them. Loki was about to look around to check for Frømund when he heard a loud clatter and a string of panicked curses. Turning around to the source, he saw Frømund standing with his hands clasped together, looking for all the world like a naughty child. At his feet was a decorative shield that had been hanging on the wall moments ago, and Loki wondered how he had managed to displace it.

Swanhild, looking completely unimpressed, huffed. "Clumsy," she said, and entered the study. Thor sniggered and followed her, but Loki lingered a moment to watch Frømund. The trainer smacked himself in the forehead.

"By the Norns, Frømund," he muttered to himself before lifting the shield back into its rightful position. As he looked up, he spotted Loki. The boy raised an eyebrow. "Go away!" Frømund snapped at him, before remembering who the child was and looking mildly queasy. Loki buried a smirk at the man's constant agitation and continued into the study.

* * *

It became more and more normal for Frømund to continue training past the time it was supposed to end. Even with no way to tell the time, Loki always knew because Frømund would glance anxiously up to the palace and lose interest in his pupils. If Swanhild appeared, an elated expression would flash across his face before the usual fear returned, and if she didn't, he would end the training disappointed and moody.

It was obvious to the boy that Frømund was always trying to see Swanhild, but he couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe he wanted to marry her, like Volstagg had married Hildegund. But why would anyone want to marry someone who terrified them? It was obvious that Frømund was afraid of the Blood Axe. Maybe that was what attracted him?

After two months of this strange form of courting, Loki decided to consult Thor. He had been wondering if anyone else had noticed Frømund's behaviour, and perhaps his brother would have some insight into the matter that he didn't, as much as he doubted that would be the case.

He waited until after training on one of the days where they would have an hour before meeting Swanhild. Well, forty minutes, because Frømund had continued training for an extra twenty.

"Thor," he began as they walked back up to the palace. He had checked that Frømund wasn't following them, and was certain they wouldn't be overheard. "Have you noticed Frømund's strange behaviour recently?"

"No," Thor replied immediately – then he frowned. "Actually, yes. I have. He seems to have developed abysmal time management."

Loki 'mmm'ed in agreement, smiling. "He has, but have you noticed why?"

Thor shook his head. "Please don't make me guess, Brother. You know how little I like such games."

"The Blood Axe," he said, and waited for Thor's reaction. The only response was a blank face. "He wants to see the Blood Axe. Remember the time he followed us to the study? And how happy he becomes when she comes to fetch us because he has made us late?"

Thor shook his head slowly. "I am sorry, Brother, but I cannot say I have seen any of this."

Perhaps it was his imagination after all? But Loki knew that wasn't true. There was something going on between Frømund and Swanhild. He knew it.

"Well keep an eye out," he said. "Perhaps you will see if you are looking."

Loki considered it exceptionally good fortune that the most obvious evidence presented itself that very afternoon during their session with the tutor.

Swanhild was attempting to teach the two boys about the history of Asgard that afternoon. She had been talking about the Aesir-Vanir war for half an hour, and her frustration grew more and more as she realised how little Thor had read of the book she had given them. In fact, he claimed to have lost the book, much to Loki's amusement. He had hidden his older brother's book two days after they received them. This in itself was humorous, but what was truly hilarious was the location of the book – under Thor's own bed. Loki had only intended for his brother to have to spend a few minutes searching, but Thor hadn't even tried, probably quite pleased to be unable to study.

"But it is not important any more!" Thor exclaimed. "There are plenty of Vanir who are also Asgardian now."

"It is of vital importance!" Swanhild was livid. "You, of all the children of this kingdom, should know this."

"Why should I care what our fathers and grandfathers quarrelled about? I like the Vanir."

"There are still plenty who do not, and you must learn the origin of that distrust."

"It is a silly distrust."

"Nonetheless–"

Swanhild was interrupted by the thundering of several piles of books tumbling to the ground and the 'aarrghhh!' of a man being buried by them.

The tutor and her charges stared at the lump of man and books for a moment in silence, dumbfounded. There was a muffled curse and a head popped up, causing a large book on mathematics to roll onto the floor. Frømund.

Thor gaped and turned to face Loki.

Loki stifled a chuckle.

"Frømund," Swanhild said, he voice more neutral than the boys had ever heard it.

"Swanhild," the man replied, embarrassed.

"Why are you here?"

"Oh, no reason. I just… wanted to borrow a book! This book!"

"That is a book about dressmaking."

"Is it? Oh! I mean, of course it is. I… am making a dress."

The princes were by this point thoroughly confused. Why hadn't Swanhild screamed at him? Why hadn't she thrown him out? Why _was_ he here?

"I think I will leave now."

"I think you should."

Frømund stood and, brushing himself off, exited the room with as much dignity as he could muster.

After that day, Thor believed Loki and they studied the man's behaviour together. Eventually they came to the conclusion that he was hopelessly in love with Swanhild, and she felt sorry for him – hence the lack of shouting. It continued for many more months this way, the princes sniggering at Frømund's many clumsy attempts to win Swanhild's cold heart, until it was announced that Swanhild was engaged to be married to a nobleman who, impressed with her scholarly pursuits, had asked her family for her hand.

* * *

Frømund became unbearable in training. When he thought no one was looking, he looked like an abused puppy, his eyes big and his expression full to the brim with self-pity. When he interacted with his pupils, he was vile. Loki, as Frømund's least favourite student, found himself the victim of a lot of highly unprofessional mockery, and simply couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the man. Thor and Sif, on the other hand – the princes had of course informed Sif and Fandral of their discoveries soon after the incident with the books – tried their best to cheer up their trainer. Fandral's attitude was much like Loki's, although for different reasons. According to him, there was no reason to pity Frømund because there were plenty more women to choose from, many of them much less terrifying than Swanhild.

Loki lost his patience with Frømund very quickly. He usually preferred maintain a calm exterior and not draw unneeded attention to himself, so he tried very hard to cope with Frømund's sudden belligerence. Halfway through the fourth training session he gave up. After being thrown to the ground and pinned by an overenthusiastic Sif _again_ and listening to Frømund's increasingly spiteful criticism _again_, Loki told Frømund to shut his mouth and walked out of the training grounds.

He didn't know how the others reacted because he refused to look back. Frømund shouted at him to return immediately, a panicked note creeping into his voice, and the boy took great delight in completely ignoring him.

Loki didn't know where he was going. He was heading back to the palace, but there wasn't anywhere he needed to be for another two hours, when he and Thor were due to meet with Swanhild. Perhaps he would go to the library, but first he needed to change out of his training garments.

"Loki!" In a corridor halfway to his chambers, the young prince ran into his mother. "Are you not supposed to be in training?"

He paused, biting on the inside of his lip. "Perhaps."

"Are you injured?" Frigga strode over to her son, cupping his face in her hands. He was still shorter than her, but she no longer had to kneel to reach his level.

"No, mother, I am fine."

"Then why have you left training early? Have you all been released? But where is Thor?"

"I left," he said. Someone needed to know about Frømund's unacceptable behaviour, and that person may as well be his mother. "Frømund has become extremely odious recently and I can no longer stand it."

"Ah," Frigga said, understanding dawning on her face. "Yes, well. This is a difficult time for Frømund."

Loki's curiosity was piqued. "In what way?"

"Well, dear… it's quite complicated."

"Tell me."

Frigga frowned for a moment; then she placed a hand on her son's shoulder and guided him down the corridor. At the far end there was an alcove, complete with soft chairs and a low table, which was constructed in such a way that hardly any sound escaped from inside. It had been built in the days where men and women not related by blood or marriage were not permitted to be alone together in private rooms, and were required to converse in public spaces. This rule ruined any chances of a private conversation, so the architects of the palace had built in many of these sheltered alcoves as a way to get around such inconvenient social conventions. Now, they simply provided a quiet place for chatter that was unlikely to be overheard.

Frigga led her son to this alcove and sat him down on one of the soft chairs. She took a seat beside him.

"Many things have changed in Asgard since the end of the Last Great War," she began, tilted in her seat to face him. He looked up at her with wide and attentive eyes. "There are a lot more freedoms – our society is becoming less formal, less restrictive. It's what the people need, after so much suffering. I, and many others, hope that these changes will make life better for our children. For you, Loki, and for Thor. For example, your friend Sif would never have been allowed to train as a warrior before. She would have had to run away and join the Valkyries."

She paused here, and Loki nodded, unsure where she was headed.

She continued: "But some things are still as they were, and some families resist change."

"Why would they resist the change if it is making things better?"

"Well, some do not believe it is. They prefer tradition and they trust in the values we have always held. It is often true – I myself tend to favour tradition in most things. Asgard is very ancient and the way we have been doing things has worked well. There are some things, however, that have always been unfair, but no one has had the courage to change them."

This confused Loki. "Mother, if you think that, then why do you not change those things. You're the Queen. Does Father not agree?"

She smiled warmly. "Sometimes it does not work that way. We cannot simply change anything we do not like. We have a duty to the people, and we must represent them and respect their desires as much as we must lead them. Some laws are not ready to change."

"And Frømund? How does this relate to him?"

"Frømund has been in love with Swanhild, your governess, for a long time," she said, sadness creeping into her smile. Loki was silently pleased to have his theory confirmed by an outside source. "Her family never approved of the match, despite her fondness for him. They refused to give permission for the pair to marry, but gave it to Æinridi, who requested her hand recently. She does not dislike him, though it is obvious that her heart belongs to Frømund. This is what is upsetting your trainer – he is losing his love to another man. It is not fair if he is allowing this to affect his treatment of you children, but you must forgive him, Loki. One day you may know how he feels."

Loki's eyes narrowed slightly. There was a faraway look in his mother's eyes, which she often had when she was thinking about one of her visions. He didn't like the sound of what she was implying, but he had too many questions to ask to think about it right now.

"Why did she say yes, though? Why doesn't she refuse to marry this… Æinridi?"

"She could refuse," the Queen nodded. "She could. But she is a scholar, first and foremost. He has offered to fund her studies and research when they are married, and he is a nobleman, so many advantages come with his title. It is a promise of a good life for a young scholar – she can stop working here and focus on pursuing her interests. More than that, Æinridi is a good man and will treat her well. She may even grow to love him as much as Frømund, and he has the approval of her family. Were she to rebel and marry Frømund, the union would be unrecognised by her mother and father. While their union would be legal, her family would no longer have to acknowledge her as theirs, and she would receive no support from them. This may affect her career as a scholar, as many would view her disownment as a disgrace, and she would not receive the funding that Æinridi will provide. It is unfair – cruel, even – but it is a matter that lies in the hands of Swanhild's family, and we cannot interfere."

Loki chewed on his lip thoughtfully. This made sense in some twisted, ridiculous way, but he still didn't understand why any of this should get in the way of a marriage. Wasn't marriage supposed to be about love? Why did Swanhild's family not like Frømund? What made Æinridi more acceptable to them? But he could see in his mother's eyes that she did not want to answer any more questions. She looked oddly drained.

Frigga stood, offering a hand to her son. He took it and she pulled him to his feet, enveloping him in a warm hug. Neither spoke.

Following the conversation, Loki found that although he still couldn't feel sorry for Frømund, he couldn't bring himself to feel angry either.

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**Author's Note: Thank you for reading!**


	6. The Kitchen Mishap

**Author's Note:** **Hi! Sorry that this fic has taken such a terribly long time to be updated – not only have I moved country and started university, but I've also been working on another fic. The new fic is an actual coherent story as opposed to individual scenes/short stories like this one, so it requires a lot of planning and editing. I will continue this for as long as it keeps getting views, however : )**

**The chapter after this involves an visit to Eir, and the one after that introduces Hogan!**

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**Chapter 5: The Kitchen Mishap**

He had initially gone down to the kitchens because he was hungry. That was genuinely the only reason. Well, that wasn't necessarily true – he had to admit that perhaps boredom had also played a part. He had been having trouble sleeping recently, and had run out of places to go. The first two nights he'd gone to Thor, but on the third he had been very abruptly told to go back to sleep, which was fair enough, considering the ungodly hour and the cold midnight breeze. On the fourth night he had walked to his parents' room, but lost his nerve at the large golden doors, sure that they would simply call a servant to take him back to bed. He wasn't sure he could deal with that rejection. On the fifth night he had wandered the gardens, but a guard had spotted him and nearly fainted from anxiety. Apparently going outside at night was dangerous. So on the sixth night, growing not only very tired from lack of sleep, and very upset from lack of nighttime company, he had opted to venture down to the kitchens.

He knew it would be empty, and probably locked, but also he knew where the head of kitchen staff kept his spare keys. Two corridors away from the kitchens, Loki reached into the pot of a large flowering plant that stood beside a doorway and extracted the keys. There were three of them – one for the main door, one for the pantry, and one for the frozen room. He separated the key that opened the main door and held it ready in his hand as he carried on towards the kitchen entrance. When he reached it, he inserted the key and entered with ease.

Although he was no longer too short to open the door – those had been very inconvenient days – he was still not tall enough to reach most of the kitchen shelves, and the towering structures made him feel very small. He found a switch for the lights and wandered around, not sure what he was looking for. There were cauldrons lined up in the centre of the room, for making soups and stews, and on either side, heating stations and surfaces for chopping and spicing. Built into the far wall were fire ovens, made for spit roasting and grilling. The room was huge. After all, these kitchens prepared feasts for the whole Asgardian court, and often had to prepare enormous volumes of food – all to a very high standard, of course.

It was not this kitchen that interested Loki, however. There was no food in here. What he wanted was the pantry. He made his way to a door on the far left of the kitchen and again opened it with the appropriate key. When he pushed the fairly heavy wooden door open, a huge store of food was spread out before him. Vegetables, spices, cured meats, jars of pickled snacks, breads, wines, barrels of ale, pastries… he had always loved this room, not because he loved food, which he did like, but he wasn't sure he would call it _love_ – not like Volstagg, who inhaled food at every waking moment. He loved this room because it was so huge and so variant. It was an attack on the senses. So many different smells and colours and textures in the same place, all haphazardly piled up in rows upon rows of towering blocks. It was chaotic – yet it was expertly organised. It wasn't evident at first glance, but each shelf housed a different item, and each stack of shelves a different type of item. It may have looked like a store of unrelated foodstuffs arranged by a madman, but it was perfectly structured, and the organised chaos captivated him.

He wandered the shelves, enjoying the arrangement as much as looking for something to eat. When he eventually came to the desserts section, he found what he wanted. At the very top of a shelf, far at the back of the pantry, there stood a jar of honey filled with preserved fruit. Very sweet and absolutely delicious, it was every Asgardian child's favourite treat – he had to have it.

Loki knew already that he wouldn't be able to reach the jar. The top shelf was probably at double his height, so he searched around for something to stand on. There was a box in the far corner, but when he went to investigate, he discovered it was not sturdy enough to support his weight. There was a collection of ale barrels, which would most definitely be sturdy enough, but he was unable to budge them even slightly from their positions against the wall, heavy as they were. There wasn't really a whole lot else in the pantry that could be used to increase height. He wondered how the shorter kitchen staff managed – but perhaps there was a system in place that allocated the top shelves to taller workers. In such a wildly illogical, yet impeccably structured place as this, he wouldn't be surprised.

After a few minutes of contemplation, Loki realised something about shelves: they looked an awful lot like ladders. Excited, he hurried over to the stack of selves and tested the lowest shelf eagerly. It didn't even bend under his weight – he supposed the heavy jars of food weighed more than him already – and grinned, suppressing a verbal expression of his glee. It wouldn't do for anyone to hear him in here. Carefully, maintaining a strong grip on the shelves with his hands, he stepped onto the lowest shelf and began to climb.

It was difficult to keep his grip on the shelves, which were smoothly finished and provided no grip, but he managed to reach the very top, and found his eyes level with the jar he coveted. The honey shone under the bright lights, and the fruit leered at him, promising to be delicious if only he could carry it back down with him.

He braced himself against the shelf and removed one hand, reaching for the heavy jar. His fingers crept carefully across the jar's curved surface, testing every now and then whether they were far enough around to pull it off the shelf and hug it to his chest, when he reached too far. His foot slipped and his one handed-grip failed him. He couldn't grab the jar as he fell, and watched in horror as his target grew further and further away until the impact with the floor drew his attention to other things.

He had fallen on his back and hit his head, crying out in pain and shock, and while he was still conscious and still able to move, it _hurt_. He saw stars dancing across the edge of his vision as his head exploded with agony, and his back pounded where it had been struck. When he recovered enough to care about his surroundings, he was afraid to move. What if someone had heard his cry? He lay still, staring up at the jar.

That smug little jar, peering down at him – mocking him. How dare it! He didn't even want the honeyed fruit that much. If he had been really hurt, or if someone came and he got in trouble, it would be _that jar's _fault. He was surprised at the rush of hatred that flooded his chest. He saw blue. And the jar shattered.

The jar shattered.

The jar _shattered._

Loki sat bolt upright and whirled around to examine the pantry. Someone was there – a sorcerer, as well! He shouldn't have come here. The guard had been right; nighttime was dangerous.

SPLAT!

Loki let out a gasp of horror and spun around, two more jars shattering as soon as his eyes lit upon the shelf.

He stared in bafflement at the fruit that had fallen from the top shelf and startled him, and then he stared at the two additional shattered jars. Was that…?

Had he done that?

No, children didn't have magic.

Still, he focused on another jar and willed it to shatter. Nothing. Growing frustrated, and fearful for the only logical explanation if it were _not_ him breaking the jars, he felt his face heating up, and just as he was about to go and shatter the jar by hand, it exploded.

Either there was a very clever sorcerer stalking him, or he had developed an interesting new ability.

Eager to test it, Loki turned around and focused on one of the ale barrels. Could he break it? This time he tried to get himself into the right mindset from the start, immediately urging himself to get angry. He envisioned himself tossing an axe into the barrel, and this time felt a strange surge of energy before a slit suddenly hacked itself into the barrel and ale began to gurgle out – as though an axe truly had hit it.

Sweet Valhalla, he had magic!

A grin the size of Midgard split his face as he turned to the rest of the pantry. This organised chaos was about to become significantly less organised.

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Loki locked the doors behind him as he left the kitchens, wondering whether to return to his room. He wasn't tired – quite the opposite! – but there wasn't anywhere really to go. Besides, he was starting to feel a strange tightness in his head, and instinct told him not to try using his newfound magic again tonight. Fortune, however, provided an interesting new distraction.

The young boy was anxious, at first, when he heard the sound of a drunk man's singing. In his experience, drunk people did things that normal people wouldn't do, and their unpredictability mixed with their lack of control made them frightening. However, as the man drew nearer, Loki recognised his voice, and a brilliant thought occurred to him.

Volstagg rounded the corner with his stone tankard still swinging on the end of his arm, sloshing ale across the ground. His singing halted slowly as, with confusion, he registered the boy in front of him.

"Loki?" he slurred. "Why are you out of bed?"

"I went for a walk," he said, and he wasn't lying. Yet. "Will you take me back to my room?"

"Of course I will!" Volstagg exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "I will protect you from any wrong-doers who roam these quiet corridors! Fear not, young prince!"

Volstagg looked around awkwardly before clumsily depositing his tankard on a windowsill. He stumbled over to the prince, swaying slightly as he leant down.

"I'm leaving that there because excessive drinking is bad," he said. "Only rotten good-for-nothings drink, and I am not–." His speech was interrupted by a mighty hiccup, and Loki tried not to laugh.

"No, Volstagg," he agreed. "You certainly are not."

Looking proud of himself, Volstagg patted the boy sloppily on the head.

"Good boy!" he said, and promptly headed off in the wrong direction.

Loki let him go, smirking to himself. Volstagg was so drunk that he didn't notice that the prince wasn't following him, and what's more, he hadn't noticed as he slipped the kitchen keys into his back pocket.

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The next day, Loki heard the head of kitchen staff's muffled wail as he discovered the disarray of the pantry. The deputy head, who had always hated Volstagg and his insatiable appetite, immediately suspected him, and a quick inspection of his room had brought forth the keys – a sure indication of his guilt. The poor man, too drunk to remember what had happened, could neither confirm nor deny his involvement in the episode, and everyone was so certain of their conclusion that they didn't bother to notice that the mess had been caused by inexperienced magic.

Similarly, nobody doubted the identity of the culprit when the books in the library were all rearranged, and an old woman with a terrible memory was found, surrounded by misplaced books, in the centre of it all. Or when Swanhild's collection of expensive and unusual hats was found under Thor's bed. Or when the ale barrels were all punctured at the feast and a drunken nobleman was found with a knife that perfectly fit the incision.

Nobody doubted the identity of the culprit at all, and yet they were wrong each time.

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**Author's Note: Thank you for reading!**

**Please do read the next chapter as well : ) I will try not to take so long to post it this time!**


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